


Dreaming of Della

by ectoviolet



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Family, Gen, Loss, Slice of Life, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 17:49:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11833875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectoviolet/pseuds/ectoviolet
Summary: The boys have questions about their mother, and Donald doesn't have all the answers.





	Dreaming of Della

The first time they ask, they’re maybe four years old. Donald’s just finished tucking them into bed, and is about to turn out the lamp when Huey, the closest to the table, grabs his sleeve. 

“Uncle Donald…” he begins, nervously. He looks to his brothers, panicked. 

Dewey immediately worms out of his covers and kneels on his mattress. “Uncle Donald, what was Mom like?” 

His stomach drops. His hand falls away from the light switch. He stares straight ahead, at his three boys. They look so much like Della sometimes. The three of them stare at him expectantly. Dewey is now perched, owl-like, on the edge of his bed, leaning so far forward he looks like he’s going to fall off. That’s what jars him back into place. 

“Dewey, lie down.” He strides across the room and pulls the quilt back over his nephew. “It’s bedtime.” 

“Come on!” Louie pleads, starting to wiggle free from his tightly-tucked sheets. “Tell us a story!” 

Donald rubs exhaustedly at his eyes. “Boys…” 

“We’ll be good!” Huey promises. “If you tell us, we’ll be good…” 

Donald sighs heavily and drags out the chair he sits in to read to them, on the nights he has the energy. He sits down and stares at them. “I’ll tell you if you promise you’ll go to sleep.” 

“We will!” they chorus, in almost perfect unison. A shiver runs down his spine. He and Della used to speak as one like that, when they were kids. It drove Scrooge nuts. 

“Your mother and I… were best friends,” he begins, slowly. “Just like you three boys.” And he spins them a tale of their childhood. He omits some things--stunts he thinks the kids would try to replicate, and people he figures they don’t need to know about. Not yet, anyway. For now, he tells them about how she protected him from bullies, how she put him in their mother’s high-heeled pumps when he complained she was taller. Her favourite flavour of ice cream. How happy she was to have three perfect little boys. For all the kids know, they were just normal twin siblings. That’s probably for the best. 

\---

That night, she shows up in his dreams. There are two dreams he often has about Della, one good, and one bad. This time it’s the bad one. 

There’s nothing but black, choppy water as far as the eye can see. They’re on the deck of the houseboat, side by side, arms spread into the storm, laughing. They are young, so much younger than Donald usually feels. This is their latest adventure--facing a hurricane. 

The next part happens in sickening slow motion; the boat pitches and Donald hits the deck so hard he sees white light in his eyes. Della screams. When the boat steadies, he looks for her, but she isn’t there. He nearly throws himself over the rails, and there she is: struggling with all her might to stay afloat.  

“Don!” she cries out, reaching desperately for his hand. She’s choking on the saltwater, barely above the surface now.

He can’t reach her. The wind whips hail into his eyes, and when he tries to blink it out, he opens his eyes to see that she’s gone under.

He wants to dive after her. He can’t. His feet are firmly stuck to the deck. His body is like a concrete statue. Suddenly, Scrooge is at his side. 

“Help her!” Scrooge screams, pointing his cane at the water. 

“I can’t!” 

“We’re losing her,” Scrooge insists. “Do something!” 

“I can’t move!” 

“She needs you, Donald!” 

The deck pitches again, and Donald meets the stormy sea, and wakes up.

\---

It’s too early to get ready for work, but too late to go back to sleep. He stretches his back out and stands, figuring he might as well start a pot of coffee. It’s going to be one of those days. While the coffee brews, he does a cursory tidy-up of the living area. Puts the dishes piled on the counter into the washer, wipes the sticky kitchen table with a damp cloth. He leans against the table for a few moments, with dream-Scrooge’s words suddenly ringing in his mind.  _ We’re losing her. She needs you.  _ The coffee pot beeps, and he pulls himself back together.

Finally, he sinks into his favourite chair with a steaming mug, which he sips from slowly. He never used to take his coffee so strong and black, but raising triplets has changed a lot about his lifestyle. He needs the extra boost, not only to keep up with the boys, but to keep up with the extra jobs he’s had to take on. He loves them, more than he can say, and has never once regretted taking them in--but children are  _ expensive. _

He’s enjoying this small stretch of inactivity in his day, when he hears a door creak from behind him. He throws a weary glance over his shoulder and sees Huey, stumbling out of the bedroom and rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

Donald sets down his mug and swivels the chair around to face his nephew. “What are you doing up so early?” 

He stares at the floor and shrugs. 

“Did you wet the bed?” Donald had thought Huey had gotten over that. He’d hoped so, anyway.

“I didn’t!” Huey whispers sharply. He slumps. “I just had a bad dream.” 

Donald nods. He can definitely relate. “What did you dream about?” 

Huey shrugs again. Slowly, he makes his way over to Donald and crawls up into his lap. He clings to the worn sleep-shirt his uncle is wearing and buries his face there for a few moments. He mumbles something into Donald’s chest. 

“I can’t hear you, kiddo.” 

He lifts his head. “Dreamed something bad happened to Dewey and Louie,” he murmurs. “A monster got ‘em.” He bursts into tears suddenly, as if saying it aloud had made it real. 

Donald runs a hand through Huey’s feathers. “It was only a dream. Your brothers are okay.” He tries to remind himself that his dream was all fiction, too. That he still doesn’t know what happened to Della. That she could still be alive. But in his heart, he stopped believing that a long time ago. 

Huey just clings to him and cries. Donald gazes longingly for a moment at his coffee, which is getting cold on the table. He sighs and rubs Huey’s back. He can make more later. 

  
  


///

 

The older they get, the harder their questions are to answer.

“Why didn’t Mom want us?”

Donald’s head snaps up from where he stands doing dishes. Louie is staring firmly down at the table. He’s sitting there in time-out while his brothers are playing outside. 

“Why would you think--” 

“Am I wrong?” 

Donald drops his sponge into the sink and wipes his hands on his shirt before sitting down. “Della loved you boys… You know that, don’t you?” 

Louie shrugs his shoulders. “I barely know  _ anything  _ about her.” His voice is shaking. 

Donald feels his heart break. He knows he should probably tell the kids more about Della. It’s selfish to keep the memory of his sister all to himself. But remembering her  _ hurts.  _ Losing Della was like losing a limb. “I’m sorry.” 

“Why did she leave, if she loved us so much?” Louie asks, suddenly accusatory. “Where did she go off to that was so much more important than us?” He looks up at Donald, not even trying to hide that he’s crying now. 

Donald feels like he’s been punched. “I don’t know,” is all he can manage to say. He’s agonized over it for years. He replayed their every interaction for signs something had been wrong. For clues on where she might have been going. Seven years later, he still has no answers. 

Louie slams his fist on the table. “I hate her!” 

Now Donald  _ really  _ feels like he’s been punched. “Don’t say that!” 

Louie just sobs in response. He reaches out his arms and Donald walks around the table to pull him into a hug. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing his nephew’s shoulders. “I’m sorry for keeping you boys in the dark. I’m sorry that I don’t have all the answers.” He holds Louie at arm’s length. “But your mother  _ loved  _ you. I want you to know that.” 

Louie nods and scrubs at his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry I pushed Huey into the water.” 

“I know.” He’s still working on impulse control with the boys. Louie lashes out at random when he’s frustrated, and Donald can’t help but wonder if that’s some kind of gene that affects the males of the Duck family. “I wish you would talk to me when you’re upset instead of taking it out on your brothers.” 

Louie looks Donald square in the eyes. “What do you think I’m doing now?” 

At that, Donald is shocked into laughter. 

\---

Later, when the boys are tucked in and he’d usually be enjoying some quiet time, Donald digs through the back of his closet. He knows that box is in there  _ somewhere,  _ it’s just a matter of getting things out of the way. His old fishing rod and tackle box, his sombrero, a broken umbrella… finally, he finds the box underneath his neatly folded service whites. 

Carefully, as if unearthing some ancient treasure that might be booby-trapped, he lifts the lid. As expected, it’s full of nothing but photos. Probably hundreds of them. 

He sits on his bed and begins to sift through the box. He sees a lot of himself. Himself in his uniform, pulling an awful face at the camera. Himself in a jungle, on some kind of expedition. There are a lot of Scrooge too, posing next to some beast he’s tackled or some treasure he’s hunted. Those, he shoves in the back of the box. There is still a bitter taste in Donald’s mouth when he sees his uncle’s face. But then he begins to get through Della’s shutterbug phase and into their parents’ photo collection. Donald, eighteen and fresh-faced, in navy blues. Donald and Della wearing graduate caps and gowns. Donald and Della with their prom dates--he can’t remember either of their names. Their school photos from senior year. Della in her karate gi, holding up a shiny medal from some tournament or another. He sets these aside. 

The further he gets through the box, the older the photos. Donald and Della’s faces get younger and younger. He finds one photo of a young man he doesn’t recognize, his arms around Donald and Della’s tiny shoulders, grinning like he’s won the lottery. Then, he sees the cane dangling from one hand. It’s Scrooge. And then it is too fresh, too raw, seeing them all so young and unburdened. Seeing Scrooge really, really smile. He shoves the photo into the box, a little too hard, knocking it off of his bed. 

The photos spill out onto his floor. He picks up the box and is about to put the photos back, when suddenly, there she is, staring up at him from the bottom of the box. Exactly as he remembers her. With three little ducklings nestled against her chest, looking like she holds the whole world in her hands. He carefully pries up the photo, being extra sure not to tear it at the corners where it’s taped to the cardboard, and adds it to his stack of pictures. 

If he cries, he’ll never tell. 

\---

When the boys have finished their supper, Donald makes his announcement. “I have something for you boys today.”

“Like a present?” Dewey stood up on his chair. 

“Sit down,” Donald commands, automatically. Dewey reluctantly does so. “Sort of like a present. I’ll bring it out when you’ve cleared the table.” 

Donald has never seen plates go from table to dishwasher so fast in his life. He chuckles to himself slightly, wondering if he should bribe his nephews more often. “Alright, let me go get it.” 

He disappears into his room and returns with the photo album he’s compiled. He sets it in the middle of the table, so his nephews can all see it.

“A book?” Dewey groans. He rests his head on the table. “I cleared dishes for a book!” 

“It’s a photo album!” Donald snaps. He softens. “I thought you might like to see these pictures.” 

Louie reaches over and flips open the cover. “It’s Mom!” 

Dewey raises his head. Huey leans forward. 

Louie points at the babies in the photo excitedly. “Is that us?” 

Donald nods, and he remembers for the hundred thousandth time how much he loves these boys. “That’s you.” 

His nephews crowd in around the album, flipping through the pages, excitedly talking over each other. Suddenly, they’re all laughing. Donald tries to see which photo they’re looking at, but they’re huddled too close together. 

Dewey holds up the book in both hands, right in Donald’s face. “Is that  _ you,  _ Uncle Donald?!” It’s the prom picture. His finger rests on Donald’s ruffled shirt. The boys all burst into laughter again.

Donald throws his hands up in the air. “I try to do something nice for you boys!” 

\---

When Donald comes home from his night job, Louie is awake, sitting on the couch, with a blanket draped over his shoulders. 

Donald is immediately at his side. “What are you doing out of bed? Are you alright? Are you sick?” 

Louie shakes his head. “I’m fine.” 

Donald notices the album in his nephew’s lap. It’s opened to the first page. 

Louie points at the baby swaddled in green. “That one’s me, right?” 

Donald sits down next to him and nods. 

“You know, you look kinda like Mom,” Louie says, squinting at his uncle’s face in the dim light. 

Donald snorts. People have told him the same thing all his life. He’s never seen it.  “You need glasses.” 

Louie shrugs. “Hey, Uncle Donald? Uh, thanks. For this.” He gestures to the album. He wraps his arms around Donald and squeezes. “Thank you.” 

Donald squeezes back. He suddenly wishes he’d done this a whole lot sooner. Remembering Della hurt, but her sons growing up not knowing her hurt just as much.

 

///

 

It is a rare moment when Donald Duck has nothing to say. He hangs up the phone and begins to walk out of the building. 

“Duck, where are you going?”

“It’s my kid,” is all he manages to choke out. He’s practically on autopilot. He cracks his knee on a counter. More like on Launchpad-pilot. He’s out the door and in his car before he even feels any pain. He slams his hands on the steering wheel. It makes a big racket and solves nothing. Donald’s specialty. 

\---

He’s having trouble at the information desk.

“You’ll have to slow down, sir, I can’t understand--” 

“Huebert Duck,” he repeats, painfully slow. “I’m looking for him. I’m his legal guardian. Donald Duck.” 

The woman at the desk presses a few keys on her computer. “Your son is in surgery right now.”

Donald doesn't have the mind to correct her. He thinks he might black out. “Do you know where I’d find his brothers? They came in with him. With an old man, my uncle…” 

“They’d be in the waiting room through there.” She points to a pair of doors. 

He thanks her and pushes through without looking back. There, sitting on either side of Scrooge, are Dewey and Louie. 

Donald is torn between wanting to comfort his children and wanting to scream his head off at his uncle. 

He chooses the latter. “I trusted you!” 

Scrooge looks aghast. 

“I asked you to keep them safe! That is the one thing I have ever asked of you!” His shoulders are rising, his hands clenching into fists. “I should have known I couldn’t leave you with the kids! I should have been smarter than that, but I wanted to make things right!” 

“Uncle Donald, wait…” 

He turns to Dewey, his anger dissipating at the sound of his voice. 

“It's not… it’s not Uncle Scrooge’s fault,” he says haltingly, “we weren't listening…”

Donald shakes his head slowly and sits in the nearest chair. Dewey crosses the room to sit next to him. Louie remains where he is, uncharacteristically silent. 

“Don't be mad,” Dewey says, staring at his hands. 

Donald nods. He puts a hand on Dewey's shoulder and lets out a long breath. “How you holding up?” 

Dewey shrugs. “I’m not the one who got hurt.”

The bandage wrapped around his hand tells Donald otherwise. He glances across the room to assess Louie. He’s got a bruise forming below one eye, a bandaid on his forehead, and he’s holding his arm kind of funny. He figures the doctors have already gotten to the both of them, but he makes a mental note to give them a closer look later.

He blinks back into focus. Dewey is fiddling with his bandage. Donald takes his hand and pulls it away. “You’re going to make it worse,” he scolds softly. 

“Huey’s going to be okay, right?” Dewey, the practically fearless leader of the nephews, sounds terrified. 

“Yes.” He doesn’t let his own doubt seep into his answer. He has to pull himself together. His kids  _ need _ him. 

Dewey’s face scrunches up. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. When he finally gathers the words he needs, he is so quiet Donald has to strain to hear. “I feel really weird without him.” 

“I know.” Donald knows the feeling exactly. That hollow, empty space that hangs over him every day. The phantom pain in his chest. 

“Is this what it’s like for you without Mom?” 

That's another way the boys are like Della. Surprisingly perceptive. “Yeah. This is what it’s like.” 

Dewey leans into his side. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. It does suck.”

\---

Donald and Scrooge are alone for a moment. Dewey and Louie claimed they were going to the bathroom. Donald doesn't believe them, but is too tired to argue. 

“Scrooge.” He looks directly into the man’s eyes. “I’m sorry for blowing up at you in front of the kids. That was inappropriate.” 

Scrooge is silent, apparently unaware of how to handle civility.

“Don't get me wrong. I’m still furious,” Donald adds. “If I didn't have to worry about what the boys would think, I’d have hit you by now.”

Scrooge snorts. “You’d hit an old codger like me?”

Donald sighs, ignoring the obvious bait. He doesn't want to fight. He just wants his kid to be okay. “They aren't Della.” 

“What?”

“You can't treat them like Della. You can't treat them like  _ me. _ You have to look out for them. They're little kids _ ,  _ Scrooge.”

“They’re thirteen years old--”

“They're  _ eleven.” _

Scrooge is silent.

Donald closes his eyes and leans back. “I promised her. I promised her I’d look after them.”

“This isn’t anything to do with you,” Scrooge scoffs. 

“They're my kids. Anything that happens to them, I’m responsible for it.” 

\---

Launchpad comes by to bring the kids and Scrooge back to the mansion. He offers sympathy, slaps Donald on the shoulder hard enough to hurt. Says he knows Huey is a tough kid, that he’ll be up and running before they all know it. He may be an idiot, and a klutz, but Launchpad is a genuinely nice guy. He reminds Donald of an old friend. 

Donald is sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a cramped and creepy hospital room, thumbing through the book Mrs Beakley had McQuack bring him. He’s not really reading it, just getting snatches of sentences here and there. He glances up at Huey every now and again, searching for any sign that the kid’s going to wake up. He was awake for a while before, but not really coherent. He’d just asked after his brothers and Webby, convinced that they must have been hurt. Donald felt like an ass. He hadn’t even been thinking about Webby. 

There’s a stirring, finally, from the bed. Donald looks up. “You awake, Huey?”

“Uncle Donald?” 

“The one and only.” He closes his book and sets it aside. “How you feeling, kiddo?” 

Huey blinks a few times. “Kinda fuzzy,” he answers after a moment. 

Donald nods. That’s about what he was expecting, with all the painkillers he’s on. 

Huey’s hand drifts up to his chest, padded heavily with gauze. “You wanna know something?” 

“What’s that?”

“Getting stabbed is not as cool in real life as on TV.” 

Donald has to rest his head on the bed to hide his laughter. “No kidding.” 

\---

Despite all the stress of the day, Donald has a pleasant dream. His favourite dream.

They’re on an airplane, coming back from an expedition to the Andes. Della’s beaming, happier than Donald has seen her since they were in high school. Their latest find is tied up so it won’t slide around, with Scrooge perched on top of it. He keeps tapping the golden chest with his cane and grinning, looking from his niece to his nephew. 

Della scoots a little closer to Donald in her seat. “Can I tell you something, Don? It’s kind of a secret.” 

Donald laughs. She’s acting so strange, like a kid. “Sure, sis.” 

“I didn’t want to tell you guys until I had one last adventure, ‘cause I knew you’d never let me come…” she lets it hang for a moment. “But I want you to know first. I’m having ducklings.” 

Donald hugs her. She laughs out loud, squeezing him around the middle. 

“I knew you’d be just as excited as I am!” 

Donald giggles. He’s completely giddy. “I’m going to be an uncle!” 

“You sure are!” She holds him at an arm’s length. “And… I hope you’ll be the godfather too?” 

“Of course I will! Are you kidding?” Then, he pauses. “Wait, did you say  _ ducklings _ , as in more than one?” 

“Triplets!” she shrieks. 

“Triplets!” he echoes, hugging her all over again. 

“Triplets?” Scrooge asks, from the back of the plane. 

And she tells him her good news, and they’re all so happy for her. They’re looking forward to the future. Three brand-new little Ducks, and they’re going to be Della’s. 

 


End file.
